Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters and properties in this fiction fall under the
ownership of their respective copyright and trademark holders; that includes,
but is not limited to: Mutant Enemy; Joss Whedon; Fox; Warner Brothers; the
Chateau le Marit vintners of France; the estate of George Gordon, Lord Byron;
and various other parties not named but not excluded. Infringement of these
rights is neither expressed nor implied; usage of these characters and
properties is expressly without the permission of the respective holders and
indicates no surrender of intellectual property. This work of fiction was
created without the intent to generate profit, and is distributed solely as a
free exercise. In other words: I don't own 'em, wouldn't have done things the
same way anyway, so please don't sue.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Sure! Please let me know, though.
Feedback: I'm a slave to it. It's my first time. Please be gentle.
Spoilers: Through Season 5, goes AU very quickly after that.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my Wife (v.2.0), without whom no things are possible.
Props to Jean-Patric and Orleans, proprietors of the Chateau le Marit Vintners
and good friends. And thanks of course to Joss and his writing team, without
whom the vast wasteland of modern television would be even more parched and
desert-like. Long live Firefly!
Pairing: Willow/Tara
In the southern regions of France, where the vineyards stand shoulder to shoulder over rolling hills and the fields of grape vines have roots older than most of the countries of Europe, there is a small family plot of land, known as Chateau le Marit. Just 30 acres of vines, with another 100 acres or so of fallow fields, le Marit bottles perhaps 500 bottles of wine of various sorts every year or so. No wine magazine has even ever heard of Chateau le Marit, nor do wine connoisseurs boast about the deals they got on a bottle. Restaurants do not include it on their high-priced high-end menus. Chateau le Marit, as far as the world at large is concerned, doesn't even make wine.
Giles knows the current owner of Chateau le Marit. Jean-Patric was at one time a good friend. Jean-Patric Marit has been making wines since before the Puritans fled to the New World; he has had plenty of time for practice.
Every year or two, a bottle of Chateau le Marit finds its way to Giles, no matter where he is.
It is unsurprising, then, that in the fall, after the harvest, after the press, after a long, hot, Californian summer, Giles finds a package in the mail at the Magic Box. Enclosed are two bottles of '72 Syrah, two bottles of '98 Chardonnay, and a note.
"Mon Ami, It saddens my heart to hear the news of your loss. I had been saving these wines for a special occasion; there are not many of these left. Find some consolation in the red. Find something else in the white. Je suis désolé, mon ami. Yours, Jean-Patric."
Giles takes the bottles with him into the cellar of the Box. It is cool and dark down here, nearly perfect for wines; the reds he sets carefully on a shelf of blessed and decanted oils, their necks down to keep the sediments from filling the bottom of the bottle and ruining the taste. The whites he places in the small cooler, where they keep the blood. He reads the labels carefully, and walks upstairs, lost in his memories of Chateau le Marit, of the wines, of the magic wrapped up in the grapes...for each bottle, he has no doubt, is magic. The nose, the smell of the wine, is always exquisite, and the clarity and color are superb, but the taste is what sets la Marit apart from all else; the magic of the wine is in the taste.
Giles remembers a bottle of la Marit he drank, the night Jenny died. The '85 Merlot had tasted like sorrow. Heavy and wet and with the smells of leather and ashes, the bottle had been too small to contain his grief, and he had cried until his tears ran dry. For graduation day, he had gone home after everything and opened a bottle of '96 Sauvignon Blanc, with a scent like pears and apples and butter and oak, and the flavor of the sunrise.
He is sitting in the Magic Box as the sun sets, watching the golden light stream through the windows, when Tara and Willow arrive. He is embarrassed to be caught staring into space, until he realizes that the two women are too involved with each other to notice he has been "spacing," as the children call it. He had been pleasantly surprised by Tara's recovery; almost overnight, she had put her life and self back together, all the better to take care of the young redheaded girl by her side. Willow had been devastated by Buffy's death, initially blaming everyone else, but eventually blaming herself. Her grief had been, Giles had thought at the time, nigh inconsolable. Tara, though, had blossomed, her care and love reflecting Willow's treatment of her after Glory's attack. They walk in, hands entwined, bodies leaning on each other, heads bowed together, sharing some inexplicable moment of youth and love. They are smiling, for what Giles thinks is the first time since...since she died. It makes him smile, too, somewhat sadly.
Willow looks up, noticing Giles' face, and her own smile falters, then dies. "Oh, oh – Giles, I'm so, I mean – we're sorry. We were just –"
"Willow, Tara, please. It's quite all right. You shouldn't think – I, I mean, there's no reason..." Giles takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and sighs. "There's no reason not to smile, and a thousand reasons to smile. Don't be sorry. Be happy." He smiles again, again sadly, and puts his glasses back on. "I take it Dawn isn't with you?"
Tara glances down and away, almost instinctively avoiding conflict, but Willow is more comfortable with anger, with sadness, than with her newfound pleasure. Her voice is hard, vaguely angry.
"No, Dawn's with Spike. Again." Her pause is telling; Willow disapproves of Dawn's relationship with Spike, and disapproves of Spike on general principles.
Giles happens to agree with her. "So we can expect her after sundown. Very well then. Anya and Xander should be along momentarily. Would you like some tea?" He steps behind the counter and plugs in the kettle, starting the water to boil.
Both the witches nod, then take their respective places at the table. Giles look up as he hears the doorbell ring, and there are Xander and Anya, as promised. Xander is carrying his hardhat and gloves; Anya is carrying a stack of binders, most of them full of photographs cut out of wedding magazines. It had been sudden, but not completely unexpected, when Xander and Anya had announced their impending nuptials. It had been an inkling of joy in an otherwise joyless summer. The passing summer’s oppressive heat and flat, washed-out colors had dampened even Anya’s irrepressible voluminousness. Giles nods to the couple as they make their way to their seats. The quiet shuffle of papers and greetings makes Giles sigh; it has been far too long since smiles have graced this table; for far too long sadness has reigned here.
Giles opens his mouth to say something, anything; he wants desperately to break the pall that hangs over them like a dark fog...but he doesn't know how. Instead, the kettle begins to whistle, and he says instead, "Tea?" looking at Xander and Anya for their reactions. He returns to the counter, pulling the mugs from the cabinets, placing the bags in the mugs, taking comfort in the small refuge of ritual. Lemon Zinger and Chamomile for Tara and Willow, Darjeeling and Earl Grey for Anya and Xander, Orange Spice for Dawn (no doubt within moments of her arrival), and for himself, English Breakfast. Her favorite...Buffy's favorite. Giles himself finds it too bitter, but it was the only flavor that Buffy would tolerate. He drinks it as a reminder, and as penance, he supposes. A private suffering for his failing her as a Watcher. Again.
He distributes the mugs, and just as he begins to get annoyed and glance at the clock, the basement door opens, and Dawn and Spike arrive from the sewer access tunnels. It is still odd for Giles, to see the dynamic between the two of them, the youngest and the oldest of them (though it is often easy to forget that Spike is older even than Giles by a lifetime). When Spike is near her, Dawn seems more confident, more solid, more 'together' than even before Buffy's death. Without Spike, she seems to shrink into herself, as if she was trying to disappear, trying to hide from the world.
Spike, on the other hand, seems to shrink around Dawn, fading into the background, letting her take the lead, but always there as support. He clings to Dawn; never further than arm's-reach, frequently touching her shoulder, her hair. Oddly, Giles feels there is no impropriety between them, though why that is, he's not sure. Spike acts as if he would drown if Dawn were not his line to shore, and Giles wonders if it isn't at least partially true: Dawn is the last of Buffy's line, and without her, Spike would drown in grief.
"Dawn, so glad you could join us." Willow's voice holds shades of anger, but it is tempered by fear...fear that any harshness, any sharp words will cut Dawn like a knife, bring her to tears again, like she was for the weeks after Buffy's death. The anger is there, though, and it is a sign of good tidings for Giles. The rebuke, as weak as it is, is the first step towards moving on, the first step to living again, out of the long shadow of death.
"Sorry," Dawn says, and her voice does actually sound meek, which almost makes Giles despair again, until she continues her thought. "I was doing my homework, since I have to pass a bunch of tests so they'll let me start the year in the right grade." There is recalcitrance in her tone, and that note of defiance lifts Giles' heart, and as he looks around, he notices he is not the only one to feel better about Dawn's rebellion. At least it is an emotion other than overwhelming sorrow.
Dawn takes her place at the table, back to the wall, Spike hovering over her shoulder, and nods her thanks to Giles for the tea. Spike catches his eye, and nods his thanks, as well; it is vaguely disturbing to have Spike being pleasant, even after all this time.
"What's the roll-call today, G-man?" Xander's voice is a shadow of its former joviality. "What's the schedule for patrol this week?"
"I'd thought perhaps a group patrol tonight, then paired patrols through the week, followed by another group outing on Friday. Willow, Tara, you'll take Tuesday, Xander and I will take Wednesday, Spike and I will take Thursday. I'll take the weekend patrols and if any of you would like to join up, I'll not say no." He looks at his audience, all these children, so earnest, so desperate to save the world, and he feels his eyes begin to water.
"Let's get going, then."
The patrol, like most of the rest of the summer patrols, is quiet, with just a couple of vampires that need dusting. Between the Wiccan powerhouses and Spike, they are little trouble. Giles has done the research, and checked and double-checked his figures, but it is clear: closing the portal between the worlds also closed the Hellmouth, as far as Giles can tell, for good. The draw of Sunnydale for the forces of evil has waned; now, it is merely the routine evil with which they have to deal, and the residue of a thousand years of psychic echoes.
Afterwards, they trek back to the Magic Box, to put away the weapons and drink a little water, to relax before heading home. Willow and Tara lean against the counter, Willow wrapped in Tara's embrace, unconsciously mimicked by Xander and Anya, sitting on the stairs to the loft, his arms around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. Spike sits in a chair by the table, and Dawn is curled up in his lap, her thin, lanky frame seemingly pretzeled into an impossibly small bundle that wraps itself inside the folds of Spike's coat. There is a glow about them all, the feeling of a job well done, effort well spent.
Giles is standing behind the counter, looking at his charges, his children, his friends. He stands there, and thinks to himself suddenly: perhaps it is time to heal. He remembers the wine, and quickly darts down to the basement, grabbing the bottles carefully, and climbs back up the stairs somewhat slower.
"I wonder if we might all take a moment," he says, holding out the wine bottles and setting them next to the register. "I have been thinking for a while that it is time for me to go home, back to England; it has been quite a long time since I've seen home, really. I know this is sudden, and I know that you can't be happy about this, but please un –"
"Giles." Dawn's voice is still, but it stops him in his tracks, the power, the confidence, the love in it. "Of course you have to go. Don't feel bad about missing home. We'll miss you, of course, but..." She falters, a little, and then tries again. "Everyone is here for something different. Everyone has a pull to be somewhere else. Don't feel as if you have to justify anything to us." She smiles, and all of the other Scoobies are just staring, and Giles realizes he is staring, too. Dawn, the person here who has lost the most of any of them, just puts herself in charge, and no one seems to find it strange.
"Well, then," he stumbles, and then focuses on the bottle. "This is a bottle of wine from an old friend, and I think I should share it with...well, with my old friends." He takes out the mugs that they cleaned before patrol, and opens a bottle of the red. He begins pouring, filling the mugs almost to the rim, and he hesitates, for a moment. Then he fills a mug and hands it purposefully to Dawn. Dawn doesn't say anything, but Xander pipes up predictably.
"Way to go with the CDM charge, Giles!"
"CDM?" Tara asks.
"Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor. Not that I'm going to say anything about it."
Then, even more deliberately, Giles fills another mug, this time handing it to Spike. It takes Spike a moment to realize the drink is for him, and the look on his face when he gets it is almost pitiful in its openness. "Thanks, mate." Dawn's smile is shockingly bright, the first real smile any of them have seen in so long, it is like...well, like the sun coming up. Giles shakes his head at the pun while pouring the last of the bottle into his own mug, then joins his friends, standing in a circle, facing each other.
"It is traditional, somewhere, I'm sure, that each person proposes a toast in a round-robin fashion. I'll begin." Giles clears his throat, and raises the mug. "To old friends, and to old friends." They all drink.
The first thing Giles notices is the color, full rich red like liquid rubies. The nose he breathes in deeply, and he catches the rest of them following his lead, imitating him, especially Dawn, trying desperately to be grown up about this, but really secretly excited at her first taste of alcohol. The smells of oak and thick tannin and deep aged barrels and anise are heavy in the back of his throat, and he pauses just a moment before taking a mouthful of the red liquid. He is shocked at the taste, and he is not the only one, he can tell; he can hear Spike's muffled choke. The flavor of the wine is thick and rich, with a copper tang, like blood, and strangely sweet...and it reminds Giles of nothing except death. Not 'buried in the ground, please God let me out' death, but 'safe, warm, at rest' death. It tastes like what death ought to be like, he thinks.
Bringing the cup down from his lips, he glances around the circle of bodies, and to a one there is a look of surprise on their faces. Giles imagines his face looks much the same; Jean-Patric was a gifted winemaker, of that Giles has no doubt. He looks to his right, towards Xander, and nods. Xander shakes his head, clears his throat, and raises his glass.
"To..." Xander's voice is rough, and he falters, then tries again. "To old love," he looks at Willow, and then his gaze travels across Tara and rests on Anya. "And to new loves." Another drink, and it is Anya's turn.
She looks down, then looks directly at Spike, and raises her glass.
"To the difference between human and humanity." Giles watches Spike register surprise for the third time in a day, and smiles as he takes his drink.
Tara is next, and there is a long pause while she gazes deep into the wine.
"To who we were, and to who we become in time." She smiles as she says this, and looks at Willow, who is smiling a little, herself, as she and the rest take a drink.
"To the choices we make, and to those who help us choose." Willow's toast is soft, and she watches only Tara as she sips from her mug.
Spike is next, but it takes him a moment to realize it. Giles is taken aback at the open emotion on Spike's face; the instant of glib sarcasm squashed before it can become words, and then his brow furrowing as he searches for something appropriate, something worthy of this newfound closeness, this acceptance. Something worthy of the wine, and the moment. He clears his throat, and his voice is husky when he speaks.
"To life," and as he says it, his voice breaks. His tears are tinted red, the blood in them staining his white cheeks, and it is his openness that drives everyone else to tears, even Giles. But the tears are not harsh, not wracking; these tears are tears of release, of quiet, of mercy, of healing.
For a minute, no one can continue. Then Dawn clears her throat, wipes her eyes, and holds up her mug. If she is unused to alcohol, it shows not at all, though Giles can feel the warm glow seeping into his bones. All of them wait for Dawn.
When she finally speaks her voice is quiet, but steady.
"To those who have gone before us, and to absent friends." They all drink deeply at this, and in a moment, the last of the wine is gone.
Giles looks at Tara whose forehead is wrinkled in thought, and quirks and eyebrow at her in question. She notices, and her smile is faint. "I was thinking of poetry."
They all smile, except Spike, who clears his throat, and when he has everyone's attention, nods to Dawn. "Tell them, pet. Your homework today. Like I taught you."
Dawn nods, looks down at her feet, and then looks towards Giles as she begins to speak.
"The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die."
She falters on the last word, and everyone is silent, until Giles speaks the next stanza:
"It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew."
Before he can continue, Xander's voice rings out, his quiet, husky baritone suddenly full and clear and filled with purpose.
"Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
"Didn't know you had it in ya, Xander," but there is no reproof in Spike's voice, and just for this moment, everyone agrees with Spike, much as they would like to disagree. Where'd you learn Tennyson?"
"Just because I never paid attention in class doesn't mean I didn't learn anything. Plus it was easier than the James Joyce version."
And as weak as the joke is, everyone laughs, and there is, for the first time in a long time, the sound of happiness in the Magic Box, and the laughter flows like wine from a bottle long-corked.
The End
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